Cold Living
by Aanix
Summary: AU. Four years after Buffy’s death, and nearly as long after one disastrous attempt at bringing her back, the remnants of her family, friends, and one-time foes must work through their stagnancy and doubt while learning to move on…
1. Trailer, Backstory, Author's Notes

**Author's Note:** This story is not about action. I'm just letting you know ahead of time that there isn't any fighting, etc. I love that aspect of Buffy, but this story is about the characters. Besides, I don't think I'm one for writing action well anyway, so consider that a good thing. Some of the characterizations may seem off (I don't know for sure, because I've only just finished the prologue as I'm writing this, I'm just giving myself some leeway by stating this now), but those differences can be attributed to the years of alteration from the cannon Buffy storyline that the characters have been subject to. There's always a reason for a character acting a certain way, if it seems off, e-mail me, I'm sure I can explain. Also, the reason I'm only including the background information in _trailer format_ was because, again, this is not really about what happened, even considering the effect on the characters. I realize this is not a traditional method, but this is fanfiction, so I can get away with it. ;)

**Parings/etc.:** This is not a 'shipper story. There are elements of B/A _and_ B/S, as well as C/A. Also present is both W/T and W/O, as well as A/X. There is Spike/Dawn, but not in a romantic sense and only in a familial bond type.

**Summary:** (Alternate Universe from _Bargaining_ on). Four years after Buffy's death, and nearly as long after one disastrous attempt at bringing her back, the remnants of her family, friends, and one-time foes must work through their stagnancy and doubt while learning to move on…

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Camera reveals Giles, Willow, Tara, Xander, Anya, Spike, and Dawn as they come upon Buffy's body on its bed of rubble below Glory's tower. Slayer's Elegy plays.

Fade into a shot of her grave, moving forward to frame a shot of her epitaph.

**Willow (VO):** "We do it tonight."

Music fades into a more tribal beat as scenes flash of the ritual to bring Buffy back from the dead. Lighting the candles, Willow being consumed by red light. Then the jar breaks, and the spell is broken. They run. 

Cut to Xander, Anya, Willow, Tara, Spike and Dawn in the Magic Box. Outside chaos can be heard, and it's getting closer.

**Spike:** "Brilliant mess we're in now."

**Xander:** "We need to leave."

Cut to everyone in Xander's car as they near the edge of town. The car is attacked, a window is broken and Anya is pulled out of the car. Xander gets out and screams after her, as Spike joins the fray. Tara makes an effort to protect Dawn while still in the car. Willow gets out of the car, using magicks to repel anyone who comes near the car, and Xander gets Anya back.

Cut to a reveal of a demon carrying a gun. One shot rings. Xander et al look around in surprise. Dawn and Tara are forced out of the car as a demon breaks the window on the other side. Spike jumps in front of the two as the demon takes aim at them. Three shots are expelled nearly in unison, all of which meet Spike in the stomach. He manages to remain standing, but he stumbles forward a bit as a fourth shot leaves the barrel. 

**Willow:** "No!"

Cut to Tara falling to the ground. Dawn screams, Spike is shot a fourth time, and he falls back against the car, sliding down the side to a sitting position, leaning against the front tire. Willow kneels down at Tara's side, crying, but Tara's already gone.

Cut to a close up Willow's face as she tries hard to breath. A few moments later she look up, laying an icy glare on their attackers as they all stood, transfixed. Fade to black.

A piercing scream can be heard as we fade back to a shot of Willow, a dark energy flowing from her mouth, consuming their attackers. Xander clutches Anya, Dawn huddles, covering her ears, and Spike remains still, hardly able to move. Fade to black.

Cut to silence, a long shot of the former battle site. The demons lay in various stages of decomposition. Everyone else remains still. Spike leans forward to pull Dawn further away from Willow, put Willow whirls to star at him. She slams her palm into his chest. Fade to black as Spike screams.

**Willow (VO; whisper):** "You'll need it."

Cut back. Willow's gone. Spike is living, but in a fetal position. Fade out.

Cut to the interior of The Hyperion. Xander, Anya, and Dawn sit on a couch facing Angel and Wes. Cordelia stands behind the couch with Gunn, Fred watched from the balcony. 

**Xander:** "The Hellmouth had gone to hell and we need backup. We have no slayer, no watcher, and no witches. Basically we've been reduced to an ex-demon, a construction worker, a teenage girl, and a recently insane vampire. We're one wacky baboon away from being the worst sitcom idea in the history of television, but we're not going to scare any of the bumpy forehead crowd."

**Wesley:** "You need a slayer."

Cut to the upstairs hall. Dawn stands in front of one the hotel room doors as it opens and Lorne comes out. Dawn looks around him into the room to see Spike huddling in the corner before Lorne closes the door behind him.

**Dawn:** "What's wrong with him?"

**Lorne:** "Nothing, sweetie, that's the trouble: there something a little too right."

**Dawn:** "I don't understand."

**Lorne:** "Somebody gave our Billy Idol here some soul."

Cut to the next day, Angel leads Faith into the Hyperion lobby. She looks around, everyone looks back up at her. 

**Faith:** "Heard you were in a wicked fix."

Cut to Sunnydale, a few days later, as Xander, Anya, Dawn, Faith and Spike are picking around the mess of the old Summer's residence. Giles comes in through the ajar door, holding some luggage. 

**Giles:** "What happened?"

Cut to a few days later. Dawn sits on the couch in the now nearly clean living room, facing Xander, Anya and Giles. Spike leans up against the fireplace, a little out of the conversation. 

**Dawn:** "Where would they send me?"

**Giles:** "They can't locate you father, so it's most likely that they'd put you into foster care."

**Dawn:** "What? No way, (she stands) you can't let them put me in a foster home."

**Xander:** "We don't know what else to do."

**Anya:** "But you heard what the Council said, there are still people who want to kill her. She'd be easy pickings in foster care, believe me, children's services couldn't handle a band of demented leprechauns, a few demon worshippers won't have any trouble getting to her."

**Xander:** "Demented Leprechauns?"

**Anya:** "It's a long story."

**Giles:** "And not the point. She's right, Dawn wouldn't be safe."

**Xander:** "So what are we supposed to do?"

**Spike:** "Let me take her."

Everyone looks at him. 

**Spike:** "I can get her out of this bloody country, and away from any threats. I'm the only one other than Faith who's even close to capable for the job, and you need her here."

**Xander:** "No. Not happening. It's been what, a few days since you've stopped doing the crazy and you want us to trust you with Dawn?"

**Spike:** "You got a better plan?"

**Xander:** "Yah, and it involves one large stake."

**Giles:** "He's right."

Everyone looks at Giles.

**Spike:** "Who me?"

**Giles:** "Yes."

**Xander:** "You've got to be kidding me."

**Giles:** "He's the only one who can get her away from here, and right now that's what she—"

**Dawn:** "I want to go."

Everyone looks at her.

**Dawn:** "It's my decision, and I want to go."

Cut to the graveyard, late that night. We see Tara, Buffy, and Joyce's graves. Pan to Dawn. Spike stands behind her, next to their bags. 

**Spike:** "Ready to go, niblet?"

Dawn nods, stands up, picks up her bags, and heads with Spike to the car that can be seen running in the background.


	2. Prologue: Back to Sunnydale

**THREE YEARS LATER**

"Damn… soddin'… bloody…," Spike gave the kitchen counter a frustrated kick, accompanied by a suppressed growl as he pushed the cake pan away from him. How hard could it possibly be? Half the damn ingredients came with the box. He'd had his ass kicked on more than one occasion, but he didn't remember ever feeling _this_ incompetent—he'd been beaten by bloody Betty Crocker. 

He walked back to the counter and hovered over what should have been a chocolate cake. It was sunken in near the further left corner, shriveled all around, and mushy near the middle. A hundred and thirty years on God's green earth and he could even make _instant_ cake. Maybe it was size, maybe he'd attempted something to large for a beginner. Maybe instant cupcakes would have been a better idea. On the other hand he couldn't imagine fitting all eighteen candles on a single cupcake without creating a serious fire hazard, and he'd always thought that having just the one candle was pathetic on an epic scale. 

Three years. Jesus… it didn't seem that long sometimes. It seemed like it had all gone so fast…Not that he was getting sentimental, mind you, he was just indulging in the occasional bought of nostalgia. He liked to think that despite his soul he had still retained _a little_ of his badass nature. However, he had to admit (as much as it pained him) that over the last three years he'd become more than a little domesticated. 

He'd never really had to take care of someone in this way before. With Drusilla it was different—she was only weak for that short period, and it hadn't been as if she wasn't deadly despite it. But with Dawn… to tell the truth she was really helpless. She didn't have super-strength or magic powers—she was just a girl. He wasn't ever going to have kids—he couldn't and he didn't want them so that worked out nicely—but Dawn had still become like his own flesh and blood over the last few years, a fact that confused him in various fashions. He really cared for her. He had been willing to live and die for her at various points over the last three years—hell, he'd attempted to _cook_ for her— and he had never had something like that. 

But now it was going to be over. She was eighteen. The government couldn't touch her, the trouble had died down… _They were going back_. Despite every inch of his being standing firmly against it, they were going back to that bloody little town. 

He attempted to frost over the cake's deformities as he could see the sun getting lower behind the blinds. They'd only been in Mexico for a week now, having worked their way up from South America after the first of the year. They'd been quite the world travelers considering they'd had nothing else to do since they'd left. She'd liked Italy the best. She said it was the fashion but he was sure it was all those churches she made him go into so she could watch him squirm in discomfort. He was a London man himself, of course. He'd always harbored affection for his home town, even if it had changed immensely since he'd died. 

At this point, however, he'd have been willing to sunbathe on the African coast rather than return to the hell that was Sunnydale, California. 

"I don't know why you're all mopey, it doesn't look that bad." 

Spike looked up from the cake and found Buffy sitting on the counter next to him. "I've seen better looking intestines," Spike replied. He walked past the apparition to get more frosting out of the cupboard. Most of the voices in his head had gone away since he'd first gotten his soul, but from some reason she wouldn't join them. He had tried to kid himself into thinking she was really Buffy's ghost—but the fact was that he was still just a little bit crazy in the head, and she was just a reminder. However, that hadn't really stopped him from basking in glow of his own insanity and continuing to talk to her as if she wasn't a figment of his imagination. "What do you think? The red or the blue?" He asked her.

"The red. Brown and blue is just plain ugly... What are you going to write anyway?" 

"I wasn't sure—I was thinking either Happy Birthday Niblet or –"

"She's eighteen, Spike. Terms of endearment are probably not a good idea."

For some reason his features seemed to droop, "So just Dawn then."

Buffy nodded. 

"Spike?"

Spiked turned to look at Dawn, who was standing in her pajamas at the base of the stairs. 

"Who were you talking too?" She asked, though she didn't seem to care at what the answer might be. 

Spike turned back to where Buffy had been, but the space was empty. "No one, just myself," he replied. 

Dawn gave him a little smirk. "_What is that_?" she said, pointing at the cake pan as she walked into the kitchen. 

Spike tried to hide the disastrous confection, but Dawn was already standing next to him. "It was supposed to be a cake," he conceded.

She laughed lightly. "I guess it's the thought that counts, right?"

Spike looked at her and smiled, "You don't have to eat it."

"No, I'm sure it's fine…" she looked back down at the cake. "Uh…maybe we could just get some ice cream tonight. Besides, it's the big one-eight for me, I'm too old for cake."

"Come on, you're never too old for cake." He jested, offering a fork to her and mockingly presenting the cake.

"I think I'm definitely too old for _that_ cake." 

He gave her a look, setting the fork down. She laughed and hugged him as he kissed the top of her head. 

Spike leaned forward to the kitchen window and lifted the shade enough to see outside—the sun was nearly set. "You packed?" he asked solemnly.

"Yah," she answered, echoing his tone. 

Spike let out what amounted to a long exhale—a biological habit that, despite his lack of breath, he had never been able to shake. He didn't miss that place. Maybe he missed what it had been, but he sure as hell didn't want to return to what it was now. Sunnydale had only ever brought him pain, even if, on occasion, it came in the form of affection.


	3. Chapter 1: Homecoming

Faith let out a grunt as her foot made contact with the target on Giles's hand. The kick had been a little sloppy (something her dear Watcher would no doubt inform her of at some point during this session). She adjusted her position in order to fake a lead with her right leg, then she spun round, knocking the target on Giles's other hand with her left.  
  
Giles's arm snapped back a bit from the impact and he signaled for her to stop. "That move exposed your back for far longer than you should allow," he said, his breathing measured, but with an edge of weight, "When facing more than one opponent you can't afford to risk something like that. You need to stick with quick, simple combinations."  
  
"But I wasn't facing more than one opponent--I was facing you. Which, to be honest Giles, isn't much of a fight."  
  
"I'm being serious, Faith." He said as he took the pads of his hands and began to put his gear away.   
  
"So was I," Faith mumbled sardonically as she walked away from him and toward the table that held her water bottle. She guzzled the liquid and poured a little onto the top of her head to wet her hair before she ran her fingers through it and pulled it up and out of her face. She'd given up trying to tell him off about things like this a long time ago. She could land that kick fighting ten vamps and not get pounded, but trying to convince Scone Boy of that wouldn't go anywhere.   
  
"Sorry to interrupt this session of Beat Up the British Guy," Xander said as he walked down the stairs into the basement, "But I could use Faith's help upstairs. As much as I'd like to think of myself as the infallible man of heavy lifting, I'm going to be puny man in wheelchair if I try and pick up that headboard again."  
  
"No problem," Faith said, taking the wrappings off her hands and stretching out her shoulders.  
  
"Oh, and Giles?" Xander asked.   
  
Giles looked up at him.  
  
"There are still a lot of books lying around the room, did you want them to just serve as footstools or are we supposed to move those too?"  
  
"I didn't have the opportunity to move those last ones, I was rather busy, you know, something on the Hellmouth is acting a little off and my sources aren't exactly what they used to be."  
  
"Yah, but we've established that that could mean anything from end of the world to a couple of twelve year olds using a Ouji board to conjur up good old Aunt Bessie."  
  
Giles just gave him a stare.  
  
"Okay," Xander receded under Giles' scrutiny, "so we're not big with the sense of humor today. Duely noted."  
  
"Headboard," Faith reminded as she motioned for Xander to start walking up the stairs. She rolled her eyes as she followed him--not that he wasn't right--but she'd learned a little about when to be innapropriate, and right then wasn't it. Everyone had been a little edgy since since this day started getting closer. Sure, it was just Dawn. She was technically harmless, her arrival didn't mean the end of all humanity anymore... but it was she was a constant reminder of a time when it did--there was no way that they were going to be able to look at her without seeing Buffy. And since trying not to do just that seemed to be the constrant struggle of this new brand of Scoobie, that wasn't a pleasant thought.   
  
"I've got some hours for you over at that site this week if you want to stop by and pick up some extra cash," Xander said as they entered the kitchen.   
  
"Sure," she answered, "just tell me where you need me." She'd taken up a few odd jobs here and there since coming back to Sunnydale, but the only decently steady work she'd been able to manage was with Xander in construction. With her life, it was really all she'd ever manage. It didn't bother her much, though. It was a hell of a lot better than the Double Meat Palace, and the pay was helpful since slaying didn't come with a six figure income. Giles' Watcher's salary was good for most things, but she liked having some money of her own. Her wardrobe was a lot more to her liking when she didn't have to justify it too a man who couldn't understand the complete brilliance of a good pair of leather pants.   
  
They continued up the stairs and Xander glanced into what would become Dawn's room. He called for Anya, and Faith looked into the room, noticing it was empty. She watched Xander go over to the bathroom door and knock lightly.  
  
"Hun, you still in there?" he paused for a second and she thought she heard a sniffle, "I'm not trying to rush you or anything, lord knows we all have those basic needs, but she's going to be here soon, and it'll probably be easier to do all this before she is."  
  
Anya opened the door, seeming to force an unbelievably large smile, her entire face looking like it was being pulled up and back. "I am ready to toil, point me towards the labor."  
  
"Oh come on, you're on book detail, I'm the one risking serious spinal cord injuries as a result of the Summers' strange obssesion with solid wood funiture," Xander replied as they both walked past Faith and into the room in question.  
  
Faith followed the ironic husband and wife, finding the new and quite strange living arrangements of 1600 Rovelo Drive to be quite ironic. Giles had taken Joyce's room shortly after things in Sunnydale had cooled down and everyone had stopped passing out in the living room. Faith had known a few things about the relationship between the late Mrs. Summers and her Watcher, so the circumstances that made him chose to stay there often led her to wonder. She had taken Dawn's old room. No one could really bare to stay in Buffy's room for very long, let alone sleep there, so it had been used to store Giles' books and any other supplies needed for the nightly slayage. But now that Dawn was coming back, she would have to move in to Buffy's old room. The one person who everyone was trying not to associate with the dearly departed, let alone her departure, was going to reside in the epicentre of all feelings on said topic. Now, Faith had never particularly been one to philosophize, nor did she pride herself on any knowledge regarding psychology outside of its use in torture and/or sex, but she could feel in her gut that this wasn't a good idea.   
  
- - -  
  
The light had stopped trying to push through the protective covering on the windows of the car a while back, allowing Spike to take a pit stop and remove them for a better view of the road. He'd always wondered why they hadn't stayed in those Nordic countries much longer. The closer to the North Pole, the longer it goes without a sunrise - well, for part of the year anyhow. They'd gotten restless, though, he remembered. Dawn wanted to go somewhere with a nigthlife, not just an insanely long night. He felt pretty bad about that, actually, he didn't know if she'd been that way before, but she'd turned into quite the nightowl since leaving the old Sunshine State, and he couldn't help but feel that he was partly to blame. It wasn't that he didn't love the night himself, being a creature of it and all, but he wasn't sure it was all that healthy for a girl her age to live like a vampire. As a matter of fact, he wasn't sure it was healthy for anyone to live like a vampire, it was just that vampires had the benefit of not actually living.  
  
He noticed an all to familiar street sign, and leaned a bit to the right to tap Dawn on the shoulder. She'd propped herself up against the door and fallen asleep about an hour ago, more from the monotany than anything.   
  
It took her a minute to register reality, then she looked up at him.  
  
"We're there," he said.  
  
She nodded a little, yawning and sitting up.   
  
Spike pulled the car into the driveway, turned it off, and took the keys out of the ignition, then sat still.  
  
"It hasn't changed," she said.  
  
"I know." He opened the door and got out of the car, Dawn follows suit as he heads for the trunk. He got their bags out and glanced at her, only to look away and head for the door, her not far behind him.  
  
Spike set the bags down as his feet came to rest on the welcome mat who's message he'd never believed, then knocked on the door in his usual, clipped fashion.  
  
They stood there as they heard footsteps coming towards them from inside, then the door opened and Xander, Anya, Giles, and Faith stood in front of them. Though they hadn't been the one's roadtripping for the last few years, they looked worn. Anya was energetic as always, her face radiating that light Dawn had remembered, but there were more lines on her face than three years should have allotted her. Xander gave the big smile he'd always had in wait, but there was just a pinch of sincerity missing from it. Giles was reserved, his smile was small, though Dawn had to admit she felt it was more genuine. Suprisingly, the one she felt the most warmth from was Faith, a woman she'd hardly ever known outside of a few memories she hadn't really been there for. Everyone else gave her hugs that felt forced, but Faith gave her a handshake, firm, and she seemed to be the only one who hadn't invested three years worth of worry into this moment.   
  
They all moved into the living room after a few half-hearted attempts were made to make Spike feel less uncomfortable. Faith seemed the best at it, but Dawn figured she knew vampires better than people anyway.   
  
"So, how was Mexico?" Xander asked.  
  
"Bright, but it had good fruit," Dawn replied. She hadn't really thought how to answer, but that sounded right. "I got to see some pyramids, and met a shaman who gave me a remedy for menstal cramps."  
  
"Well, we should probably get you settled in," Giles announced, motioning for Dawn to follow him upstairs as he picked up one of the bags sitting on the floor.  
  
Dawn looked at Spike, then at Giles.  
  
"I should be going then," Spike said, taking his bags off the ground and heading for the door.  
  
"Actually," Giles interjected before Spike could leave the living room, "I've, uh, made you up a place in the basement, if you feel so inclined."  
  
"Right," Spike replied, seeming a little unprepared, "should be good for a little while." He headed towards the basement, passing Dawn as she looked after him.  
  
Dawn turned her attention back to Giles, picking up her other bag and following him up the stairs.  
  
- - -  
  
The cave was damp. He could taste the moisture in the air, but he didn't have to, he could feel its acidity in the cuts strewn across his neck and the parts of his arms which his tunic didn't cover as they hung above him, chained high on the rock wall behind him. He could tell how long he'd been there by the growth of his facial hair, which showed a week or so of length, but he had yet to discover exactly where he was outside of his immediate surroudings. He only knew that he was no longer amoung his order, and that she wouldn't let him go until he gave her the information she wanted - if she planned to let him go at all.  
  
"Now, I've been clear," she said, pushing a lock of jet black hair away from her face, it's sickly-pale complexion emphasized by trails of blue vains scattered across its surface. "I don't want a zombie, no demons, no vampires, no undead. I want human. I want her to have a soul, I want everything there was back. And I want you to tell me how."  
  
"You cannot upset the balance of nature. Life and death are not easily reversed--" he pleaded, but she cut him off.  
  
"I didn't ask for easy, I don't need easy, little man, I'm way beyond easy. Just give me the details. I need a few little instructions, that's all." She walked over to him as she spoke, crouching down a little so they were eye to eye.  
  
"I swore an oath."   
  
"A promise made by a man to other men. I don't give a damn. Tell me, or this won't end," she said, pressing a fingernail to his cheek and cutting a straigth line down it. "I've got all day, I've got all week. I have all eternity, baby, and if I feel like it, so do you."  
  
She slammed a hand down on his chest and his body lit up with electricity. He shook uncontrollably and could feel the back of his head garner tiny slices as it banged up against the wall over and over again. She let go, and his lungs felt as if they may never be able to satisfy his need for oxygen.  
  
She raised an eyebrow as if to reiterate the request.  
  
He lowered his head, his chest heaving up and down. "First...you'll need," he gasped, "to exume the body..." 


	4. Chapter 2: Restless Boys and Girls

Dawn rolled over onto her right side, closing her eyes tightly and trying to relax herself to sleep. It wasn't working, and hadn't been for last four hours, but she was trying anyway. She hadn't slept at night for years now, and she didn't like the idea that it was just another thing that was going to have to change now that she was back.   
  
She rolled onto her left side, found it to be even less comfortable, then half-rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. She didn't want to do this the rest of the night. She didn't want to do this the rest of the week. And she really didn't want to do this at all.   
  
With a sigh, she threw off her covers and sat up, letting her feet fall to the ground, almost right into her slippers. She slid her feet all the way into them and stood up, grabbing her hoodie from the chair new her bed and slipping it on.   
  
Tip-toeing down the stairs, through the dining room and into the kitchen, she found it a little difficult to keep her slippers from making an annoying swishy noise when she walked. The house was so quiet that anytime she made a sound it almost echoed.   
  
As she reached for the basement door she could only hope it didn't still creek, but as she pulled it towards her, slowly and steadily, she let out a deep breath at its silence. It was kind of ridiculous, though, that she was sneaking around her own house. She owned it in a legal sense more than anyone else here, with her mother and sister gone. Of course, that didn't change the fact that it had been her first instinct to sneak as apposed to just going where she pleased, and as she'd made her way through the house, that urge hadn't seemed particularly wrong.   
  
"Spike," she whispered as she came to the bottom of the stairs. Moonlight shown through the windows, leaving the room blue but dim. She saw the bed that had been made up for Spike, but it was dishelved and empty, no doubt a similar look to her own at that moment. Her eyes found his bag, which was opened and looked as though it had been mulled through a little.   
  
He didn't like many places in this town, in fact, she was sure he didn't like any. But there were definitly degrees of hate, and the one place she could think of which might rank the least dis-liked on his personal Zaget's Guide to Sunnydale would be his former abode.   
  
Dawn left the house without a peep, taking any shortcuts she could remember to the graveyard. She didn't rush herself, she found a comfort in the night and wasn't at all phased by the idea that she was walking atop a Hellmouth. She and Spike had stopped in Rekyavik a while back, there'd been another one there, and it wasn't as if she hadn't lived on this one before. It was also a sign of a quiet night when she hadn't seen Faith go out on patrol.  
  
The street lights were pretty bright, and it wasn't difficult to see the crypt as she entered the graveyard. She made her way towards it, walking around the graves, trying not to step directly on any since she kind of felt it was disrespectful and more than one mystic had told her it meant bad luck.   
  
She knocked lightly on the door to the crypt, and, hearing no answer, she pushed the door open. "Spike?"   
  
The room was dark and apparently empty. It looked much the same as it did when they'd left, though she wasn't sure how Spike had managed to keep it that way without being there to kick out any squatters. Dawn found a candle and tried to light it using a spell she'd learned when they went to Alaska. Of course, she'd only been able to do it without the herbs once or twice, and it had been quite some time since she'd attempted it, so despite her efforts, the room remained un-lit.  
  
She walked over to the cave entrance on the floor, kneeling door to look at some pictures and papers strewn across there. It was hard to make them out without any light, but most were of Buffy, drawings and letters and things.   
  
As she went to pick up another paper, she heard a click coming from just behind her head. She turned, only to see a crossbow not two inches from her nose, and she screamed.   
  
Spike would've loved to have a shot. A nice Wisky, something that would burn on the way down. He didn't know why he'd gone in the first place, he just couldn't sit in that bloody basement any longer. His choice of re-location, however, was not the best. If he was trying to escape the house because of its reminders of the dead, than visiting her grave wasn't going to help. Maybe he still wondered about his little visions, the occasional apparition of that petite blonde he'd never been able to shake, maybe he really did think, somewhere deep in that heart that didn't beat, he thought it was really her. On the other hand, maybe he was damn sure it wasn't, and he craved something tangible to remind him that she was forever out of reach. Maybe he was looking for a way to let her go.   
  
Whatever his motivation, it hadn't accomplished much. He'd mainly just made a mockery of himself, talking to headstone, asking for her to tell him what to do. He didn't want to stay in Sunnydale. He didn't want to be there for the next few minutes, let alone days or anything longer, but he wasn't sure he could leave. He didn't want to leave Dawn. Not that he didn't think she was safe, Faith had the brawn, everyone else could deal with anything that didn't involve violence. He wasn't even sure if it was about her, or if he was just being selfish. It would be healthier, more normal and comfortable for her to stay, he guessed, but he would rather go back to what they were then leave her here.   
  
He made his way into the house and up the stairs into Dawn's room, employing that uncanny ability to move without the slightest noise that even the clumsiest vampires could manage.  
  
He sat down in the chair near her bed without even a glance at the room, simply lost in his own thoughts. After letting out a huffed breath, he look over to her bed, only to find it empty. He looked down the hallway, but the bathroom door was open, no one was in there. Attempting to be logical, he thought of any place in the house that he hadn't been by since coming inside, but he knew he hadn't seen her, and there wasn't anywhere or any reason she might want to hide.  
  
He got up out of the chair, went out of the room and burst through Faith's door. "She's missing." He flipped the light on as Faith sat up groggily. "Get up!"  
  
He repeated his actions in Giles room, trying to maintain a bit of composure so as not to seem like some frantic mum. He went downstairs to the weapons cabinet, pulling out an axe or two while Giles and Faith stumbled out of bed and down the stairs.   
  
"Why don't we calm down for a second before going off into the night," Giles said, closing the cabinet, "We might want to formulate some kind of plan of action."  
  
"I've got a plan," Spike said, taking his axe and heading for the door, "I got out there, and I find her." He opened the door. Waiting just outside was Oz, holding a crossbow and standing next to a very familiar eighteen-year-old girl.   
  
"Hi," Oz said, walking past Spike and into the living room.   
  
"Where the hell have you been?" Spike asked Dawn, yelling a little.  
  
"I was looking for you," she replied, walking inside as Spike closed the door.  
  
Spike couldn't really scold her for that, considering he was gearing up to do the same on a larger scale, and he didn't want to get into a debate with her over the fact that she wasn't a child anymore, so they both followed the others into the living room.   
  
"What brings you back," Faith asked, sitting down in the comfey chair facing the couch. Giles stood near Faith, and Spike and Dawn stayed in the doorway.  
  
"I was just in L.A. running some ancient Summerian by Wes." He sat down opposite Faith and set his crossbow on the floor in front of him after unloading it. He had the same lacksidaisical air Spike remembered about him. He didn't know how long it had been since Oz was in Sunnydale, only what he heard from Dawn when she filled him in on the info she got from her occaisional phone calls to homebase. He spent most of his time on what Spike would call a wild goose chase.  
  
"I've got a lead." He seemed enthused, if one could attach that expression to the stoic werewolf, "a shaman I found in the Rockies, he uh, he didn't speak any English, but he may know where she is. I left the tape with Wes, he's going to call here when he's finished translating."  
  
"You think Willow's here?" Giles asked, confused and a little concerned.  
  
"Every shaman and seer I've seen in the last six months points to energies they're feeling from the Hellmouth," Oz replied, "this is the first time I've gotten more than one person sending me in the same direction, so it's possible."  
  
Spike tried to feel a little bit of uneeze at the mention of the idea that Willow might be coming for a visit. The last look he'd seen on her face was one of the most terrifying things he'd every witnessed, even out of some of his own misdeads. She had been pure power, and for a few seconds he could see in her eyes the traces of prescience. That's when she'd given him back his soul. She'd told him he'd need it, and he'd never known what she meant. He wasn't sure he wanted to.  
  
"I think we all had better get some sleep," Giles broke a silence that no one had seemed to notice as it formed. Spike looked at Dawn who was rolling her eyes. They didn't want to sleep. "I'll just make something up for you on the couch, if you don't mind."  
  
Oz nodded an affirmative.   
  
The weary group parted. Giles, Faith and Oz to sleep; Spike and Dawn to toss and turn. 


	5. Chapter 3: Angel, Inc

Wes flipped his Summerian dictionary back a few pages, scanned the text, then played the tape recorder again. Five minutes worth of language and it had taken him the better part of a week to translate the first half. He was nearing the end now, reaffirming his confidence in his abilities, but also worrying him a little considering the content. It was the fact that he was translating orally, he assured himself, that was causing all of his difficulties (that and the fact that the dialect used was quite old and hardly employed in magickal texts or enchantments of any kind, let alone divination), however, what was more disturbing were the impressions that the portions he'd managed to extrapolate so far were giving him.  
  
There had been no direct mention of Willow, but Wesley had no doubt she was involved. Her power had been growing ever since he'd come to Sunnydale, most likely even before then, and now that she had removed herself from the trappings of life and reality, he was a little less than comfortable thinking about the power she may have amassed. Oz may have had a desire to find her, but Wes had an underlyng hope that it wouldn't be the case.  
  
"You still working on that?" Fred asked, standing in the doorway to Wes's office, the smile he never tired of seeing gracing her face. She had Connor on her hip, the three-year-old sleeping with his head on her shoulder.   
  
Wes looked at his watch, only realizing then that it was past midnight. "Shouldn't he be in bed," he asked, changing the subject.  
  
"We tried around nine, but he's a rowdy one," Fred whispered, "I just got him to sleep a few minutes ago, but I'm not sure how long it'll last. I think he's a nightowl like his papa."  
  
"Speaking of," Wes began, but Fred motioned for him to quiet down a bit after feeling Connor stir. He tried again, his tone just barely audible, "where is Angel?"  
  
"Oh, I think he and Cordy are outside, I took Connor for them 'cause they've had a long day," Fred replied, "You want some tea or something?"  
  
"You look like you've got your hands full," Wes said, giving her a smirk. Her slight frame seemed just barely able to hold up the boy, who was growing quickly and no doubt weighed about half of what she did.  
  
"I'm just saying," Cordy's voice echoed through the atrium of the Hyperion as she and Angel came back inside. "Maybe we should just raise him like a vampire. He can sleep during the day and be up at night, cause this imbetween stuff is killing me."  
  
Fred went into the atrium, trying to tell Cordy to quiet down a little, and Wes followed her.  
  
"I want him to live like a normal kid, that isn't normal," Angel said, quieting towards the end as he saw Fred motion for it. "Look," he continued, holding a book up to Cordy (the title reading "Parenting Do's and Dont's in the First Five Years"), "it says right here that if he doesn't go out in the sun, he won't get enough Vitamin D."  
  
"This is ridiculous, Angel, he wants to be up at night, so let him. Just as long as he developes sleeping schedule so that the rest of us can to," Cordy let out a sigh as she sat down on the circular couch.  
  
"I'm sorry to interrupt," Wes said after a few seconds of letting everything cool. He'd gotten used to these brawls between Cordelia and Angel, they were always about little things involving Connor, and they never caused much tension outside of the issue. "But I think that this reading Oz brought may be of some importance."  
  
"I'll take him," Cordy said, smiling as she took Connor from Fred. Fred seemed a little relieved, no doubt for her back's sake.  
  
"Have you finished with the translation?" Angel asked.  
  
"Not entirely, but it speaks of powers rising on the Hellmouth. There's a single entity pulling on primeval forces," Wes replied, "and I have reason to believe that Oz's hunch may be right... She's the only one with the potential for that kind of power."  
  
"Who are we--"Angel began, but was cut off.  
  
"We have to go," Cordy said.  
  
"What?" Angel and Wes asked in unison.  
  
"Sunnydale... I just had a vision, it's vague..." Cordy seemed to be rushing herself in her explanation, "look, the one clear thing I'm getting out of this is urgency. Angel, we have to go."  
  
"Alright, Wes, I want you to keep with that translation and manage things back here, Cordy and I are going to Sunnydale, we'll call if we need backup," Angel kissed Connor on the head and went for the door, Cordy following suit.   
  
Cordy looked back for a second. "And just let him sleep whenever he wants," she added, closing the door behind her.  
  
- - -  
  
Willow could feel the groud twitching beneath her, her arms stretch out and forward pulling energy from all around her. The was pushed up and out of the way, revealing a coffin, the energy that surged around it cracking most of the headstones in the vicinity.  
  
She let her arms drop to her sides, and the coffin dissapeared. She looked at the headstone sitting above the mess she'd made, her face became stern and she shot a bolt of light towards it, cracking it down the middle.   
  
Smiling, she followed the coffin to its destination. 


	6. Chapter 4: The Pathetic, The Dying, and

Faith stretched out her shoulder as she walked, trying to work out the knot that had formed there sometime during the night. Construction three times a week, slaying every evening, and she gets a muscle cramp from sleeping wrong.   
  
She looked over at Dawn as the sole-remaining Summers' girl sniffed a bit, then sighed. She and Giles were taking dear Dawnie over to Xander and Anya's before patrolling. They advertised it as a movie night, but considering Dawn hadn't been home alone at night simply by default since she'd gotten back, Faith had no doubt that the illusion was gone. She found the whole thing ridiculous. Dawn was eighteen. For all intent's and purposes, she could go wherever the hell she pleased, and rightfully so. However, everyone else acted as if they had something to prove by protecting her from every little thing around her. She had been gone so long, its almost as if they hadn't noticed that she'd grown up.   
  
The trip to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Harris was continuing to remain both uneventful and completely silent. Faith could tell that Dawn was no longer amused. Sunnydale was starting to get to her, and it had only been a week. It got to everyone, though. It got to Faith every day, and every night. She wanted a life, she wanted sex, god did she want sex, and she wanted it all away from here.   
  
Over the last three and a half years, she'd gained a brand new respect for her predocessor. Buffy had lived like this for five years, the better part of what should have been her golden age, and then she died. The same path Faith now followed, not entirely of her own will. On the other hand, Buffy had a semblance of a life, and she wasn't burdened with a Watcher who, after losing his first slayer, was making every pointless attempt to both protect the one he had, and never care for her.   
  
Faith looked down at her feet. Sometimes it kind of killed. She didn't know why she cared, it had never meant anything to her before, but now... now it had a little pull. The truth was that Giles protected her because somewhere in his subconscious he saw her as his second chance. He trained her not to die, and he trained himself not to care if she did. She couldn't blame him sometimes - every woman that he'd ever cared about had died, every single one - but when he looked at her like she wasn't worth investing in because she'd be the next one to go to the block, she blamed him for a lot more. She didn't have anyone here, no company besides the vampires and the occasional one-night stand, a beer after work with Xander which even she thought was a little strange.  
  
"Alright, we'll let you off here," Faith said, standing on the curb outside Xander and Anya's apartment building, pre-empting what she estimated as Giles' plan to take her to the door.   
  
Giles made no move to protest, and Dawn said nothing as she headed up into the building.   
  
Slayer and Watcher remained silent as they made their way to the graveyard. Faith prefered not talking to him anyway. Back in the good old days - well, back when the high school was still intact, and most of the gang was still alive (and although she, herself, might not have been too good, she still considered them the good old days) - she remembered Giles as being more outgoing, definitly not as British, even funny. Its not like she was lost on the why of it, but Giles' reversion was still a point of contention in her head.   
  
She wondered sometimes why he'd come back here at all. The council could've sent someone else, there were plenty of people who wanted his job, and unlike herself, he wasn't stuck with his profession. He didn't have to come to a place that reminds him of everything he'd lost over the years. Maybe he could have been happy. She new he wasn't now.   
  
"Hi," Oz said, coming up from the side of the two without a noise but somehow managing not to startle. It was somewhere towards the middle of the third graveyard they'd come to, one near the hills toward the outside of the town. They stood there for a few stagnate seconds before Oz continued, "Patrolling?"  
  
"Yah." Faith replied.   
  
"I'm going into the hills, trying to pick up a sent," he added.  
  
"Good idea," Faith said. Giles nodded. They went quiet again. "We should pick up the pace. You know, patrolling."   
  
"Right." Oz replied. They all stood there for a beat, as if they didn't particularly know with that second of time, like the conversation hadn't ended and the rest of life couldn't begin - like they were in limbo. Then they parted.  
  
Much like many a situation, place, or person these days, no one new how to respond to Oz. He'd shown up after everything went to hell three and a half years ago, stayed long enough to help a little, then left in a search no one really understood. They'd lost her, and everyone else seemed to accept it quite quickly, almost as an offshoot of losing Buffy. However, Oz, even now, after all this time, really believed he could find Willow. And that once he found her, that he could save her. It was that conviction, the determination he maintained, that made him so difficult to relate to.  
  
The truth was, though, as much as she thought he was wrong, if Faith had any way to do it, she'd change everything in a second. Even if it meant that she'd still be in jail, even if it meant that there would be all kinds of new evil. She'd never been selfless, but they'd built there own hell, and she would do anything to break it down. It wasn't evil that made them less than human now, it was themselves.   
  
- - -  
  
Spike grunted as he tossed a few stray papers across his crypt. Letters to Buffy, crappy poetry about Buffy, phone number of the butcher's shop, drawings of Buffy, doodles she'd made in notebooks that he'd stolen, pieces of her clothing. Jesus Christ, he'd been so bloody pathetic. He picked up a nearby cardboard box and started to pile the clippings and such into it to be stored somewhere. He was so bloody pathetic.   
  
He'd found an old bottle of scotch near his bed. It had been sealed properly, it had been sitting there for three and a half years, and it tasted like gasoline of some kind. He was lucky he was already dead, considering. There was only a shot or two left now, and he was making a mess.  
  
He'd kissed her once, he remembered. He kissed her a few times, and although he didn't recall to perfectly at that moment, he was pretty sure he'd copped a feel. Another spell. Damn the redhead, it had been another bloody spell. He didn't blame Willow for everything. He didn't blame her for much, actually, but she did have a tendency to fuck with people without seeing any consequences. Granted, he was similarly affected, but he'd always seen the adverse effects, often aiming for them. She tried to change people in order to help them in the beginning, then it was to help her, and she couldn't see anything esle. They were all paying for that in one way or another.  
  
He wondered sometimes if that was where it began, his 'obsession,' as some called it. With a spell, with that spell even. He hated her, he'd always hated her, and then all of the sudden he was attracted to blondes. It had been brunettes, always brunettes - Drusilla, Cecily, deep brown - blondes reminded him of his mother. They reminded him of the sun, he hadn't seen that in ages. Blondes had been Angel's dig, and he'd never particularly liked any comparison between himself and his grand-sire. So why the hell would he want to bang the old bastard's former flame? Sure as hell wasn't revenge, though it would have been a nice perk, now that he thought about it. He'd attempted to romance her, he'd attempted to take her on a date, he'd gotten the shit kicked out of him for her on more than one occasion, and not in a get-in-your-pants kind of way. He had a big jonze for the bird, he even liked her mother, nice lady, real upper.   
  
Beneath her. He was beneath her, she'd told him. She'd fulfilled her deathwish, and she was right, it wasn't him. He didn't kill her. But he didn't save her either. Not then, not when it mattered. When he had the chance, he'd fallen five stories flat onto his face, and she'd jumped. He'd failed that night in the one thing that she'd ever trusted him with. So now he did it every night. He went through it every night. He was smarter, faster, and every night he fixed in his dreams what he couldn't in reality. All he could do for her now was make good on the deal they'd made, even if it was a little late.   
  
His brain hurt. It felt as though he was falling in and out of unconsciousness every few seconds. He was still standing, but his head was getting heavier. He couldn't trace where this particular line of though had began, he couldn't attribute the geometrical definition of a line to it at all, seemed more loopish, and oval of some kind.   
  
Stumbling out of his crypt, he broke the bottle that had been in his hand on the door, spraying the remains of the liquid onto his face and coat. It felt warm and stung in the corner of his left eye. A few shards of glass cut his hand, some caught him in his cheek as he tossed the rest of the bottle at the door. He shook his hand of and kept walking, his balance off and his feet not falling straight in front of him.  
  
Pathetic.   
  
- - -  
  
"You know, you don't have to come on patrols with me," Faith said, breaking the silence. Giles didn't do it all the time, but he'd made a habit of going more often than she'd like, even more so over the last few weeks.   
  
"With it being quiet lately, I believe this is an excellent training opportunity," Giles responded levelly.  
  
"We train a lot, enough even," Faith countered, "I don't need a baby-sitter. For that matter, niether does Dawn, what the hell is up with you guys? She's a big girl now, so am I."  
  
"Dawn is not the issue, the Hellmouth is dangerous, and she doesn't have any advantage against the evils you and I face every day. As far as you are concerned, you are never too old to train. If you become lax, you become vunerable."  
  
"Giles, no one here has an advantage against the evils we face, not you, not even me, but we make it. Keeping tabs on her isn't going to do anything. She's going to go out, she's going to get hurt, she may even get dead, but its her decision to do any of those things now." She was yelling now.  
  
"Somehow I think this conversation isn't about Dawn," Giles said, his face displaying a stern expression.  
  
"Not all of it." Faith started walking ahead.   
  
"Look, Buffy, you can't -" Giles walked after her.  
  
Faith turned to look at him, "Get over it, Giles," she tooke a breath, speaking through her teeth, "I'm not Buff-" she looked in front of her, "-y." She held out the last sound as she look at the mess of dirt before her. What had been a grave was now a mass of soot piled messily on either side of a coffin-sized hole, at the head of which sat the broken headstone that had once read 'Buffy Summers.'  
  
- - -  
  
It didn't look human. Shrivelled, crumbling, bones showing through the scraps of skin left on its face. It was just a shell, Willow reminded herself, easily fixed. She could make it breath again, she could fix its face, she could cover it with brand new skin - that wouldn't require anymore from her than the energy to open her eyes. But she didn't want the shell. It was a nice covering for what was truly of value to her. And that was more difficult to come by.  
  
She had moved way beyond words. No more incantations, no more herbs, oils, or candles. This was a matter of where to look, where to pull from, how to pick a lock or two. There were ancient barriers between her and what she wanted, those and the massive energy required of her to pass them would be the only obstacles in her path.   
  
One touch now, she had it all in place, so just one touch. She hesitated, looking over the corpse before her, wondering if maybe Buffy was still in there after all this time, if the soul Willow was pulling out of oblivion might be of no matter; if the concept of such a thing even existed.   
  
She put her hand on Buffy's head. She felt nothing, which she thought was strange. Her body just seemed to drain, and Buffy's corpse disappeared. It wasn't long after that that she noticed she was laying down, that she couldn't feel anything - mystical and physical alike. Then everything went black.  
  
- - -  
  
The former construction site hadn't been touched in a decade. City funding was lost shortly after building had begun, and the site was left to rot in the bad side of town. No one cared to buy it, the property wasn't worth the money to develop, so it remained quiet. There were concrete blocks strewn about, bricks, tools, steel support bars, and dust to accompany them.   
  
Atop the rubble, however, sat a poorly constructed tower, threatening to fall to the floor at the sound of a pin dropping. It stood about five stories high, off center at each one, and had a platform at the top level which extended several yards in front of it. At the edge of the narrow platform, were two thin poles which stood about three feet high, sporting a strip of tattered rope each. The tower was the only thing on the site with a story, save for maybe the girl who had appeared below it, laying on a bed of bricks.   
  
She opened her eyes. 


	7. Chapter 5: After Life

"She's not here anymore," Spike slurred matter-of-factly at Giles and Faith, who remained still and staring at the mightily disturbed grave before them. "Out for the night... could leave a message but I doubt she'll get back to you."  
  
The moonlight relfected a little off of the platinum blonde head of the vampire who sat below it, leaning against the standing pieces of Buffy's headstone, mumbling incoherently here and there, and wishing he had those last few shots out of his bottle of Scotch. He'd gotten there about fifteen minutes ago, found the site as it was, then passed out for ten minutes before getting up to sulk - a task done much better when one's face isn't planted in poorly maintained grass.  
  
The sulking had been going well until his companions showed up. He wasn't sure where they'd come from, he hadn't really been paying attention and his hearing had been shotty since about three fourths of the way down the bottle, so when he'd lifted his head a few moments ago and saw them, it had seemed like they'd come out of nowhere. He was sober enough to speak, and manage a little sarcasm when he did, but not quite sober enough to register whether the two of them were actually there. They weren't the usual people he'd see in his head, but he wasn't going to try and predict these things anymore, considering what his head was now going through on a daily basis.   
  
"Who did this?" Giles asked, almost accusative, "what happened here?"  
  
Spike swung his head clumsily in Gile's direction, "Rupert... Rupey, Rupey... that is one god awful name"- he paused, then smacked his lips a few times for no apparent reason -"Poor Spike... poor useless Spike... she's supposed to be here! Right here"- he gestured towards something but his lack of motor skills obscured exactly what that something might be - "...useless.."  
  
"Spike, you're not helping," Giles said, standing.  
  
"What the bloody hell do you think I've been mumblin' about?" Spike growled.  
  
Faith slapped Spike in the face a few times, getting no response though he was still conscious. "He's really out of it, I don't think he'd remember even if he did see anything."  
  
"I gathered that." Giles slipped his glasses off, rubbing the inner corners of his eyes, then looking back towards the middle of town. "We should get to the Magic Box, alert the others that we may be under an attack of some kind."  
  
"Didn't know graverobbing was an act of war," Faith said as she stood.   
  
"There are rituals which can use the bones of a slayer, I'm not familiar with them off hand, but there is a chance we are in danger."- he slipped his glasses back on his face - "We may as well use caution."  
  
"Tick tock, tick tock," Spike mumbled, "not quite the evil bastard, are we? But not quite the goodie just yet."  
  
"What about him?" Faith motioned toward Spike. "Are we leaving him here?"  
  
"We'll have to carry him."  
  
- - -  
  
She sat up, her vision foggy but the rest of her just a little stiff. The surroundings were familiar, but the perspective was not. It was a little chilly, and the air smelt stale and musty, like an old attic filled with antique clothes and trinkets in various stages of decay. There were sharp edges digging into her legs, and when she looked down she realized she was laying on bricks and concrete. It struck her as strange, but all she could think to do was stand and brush herself off. The thin, misty film over her eyes made everything look like a dream, with the colors muted by an overwhelming tint of grey.   
  
Looking around her, the place started to remind her of things and people. She moved her hand to her cheek, thought she remembered a bruise there, but it had faded. She looked toward the base of the tower in front of her, remembered a crowd, remembered running. She looked up, toward the platform above, remembered jumping.   
  
Her lungs constricted. She looked around, confused. She looked to the entrance, to the base of the tower, to the top again - nothing. There were supposed to be people, she remembered there being people, her people.   
  
She ran.   
  
1600 Rovelo Drive. She came up through her backyard, breathing heavily, her vision clearing a little. It was dark, quite, empty. There had been no one on the streets on the way over, there was no one in the house. The bench was still there, her mother's flowers, the fence, the same trees.   
  
Going up to the door, she felt around for the pockets in her outfit, looking for her key. No pockets, no keys. She looked down at herself, seeing a black dress, black shoes. The pulled at the door, couldn't get it to work, couldn't find the spare key. She punched through the window and opened it form the inside.   
  
She looked at the clock, it was only about ten, too early for everyone to be asleep. The calendar sat on the other side of the room, above the telephone. She quinted as she walked towards it, then stopped walking. March, 2006.  
  
She ran out of the kitchen, through the dining room and up the stairs. Everything was moved around, and empty. Her things were gone from her room.   
  
Turning around, she walked slowly down the hallway and the stairs, putting one hand on the railing and one on the wall, making sure they were solid. When she reached the bottom, she heard a car pull up along the street outside.  
  
- - -  
  
"This is pointless! I've never seen anything use this many words to say this much nothing," she turned to Angel who sat in the seat next to her, "and I've done art house theater in L.A." She tossed the papers into the back seat of the car, then leaned her head onto her hand and her elbow on the car door.  
  
They'd been driving for a few hours, were now coming into Sunnydale, and she hadn't gotten anything out of the ramblings Oz had given to Wes, on top of the nothing that she was getting as far as details out of her vision. Well, nothing but the twisting in her gut, a sort of visceral dread. However, that could well be caused by driving through the Sunnydale city limits. She hated her home town, she hadn't ever wanted to come back. The last thing she wanted was to return to a place that had witnessed some major low points in her life, not to mention nearly the end of it on occasion. She'd always figured that since they'd blown up the high school, she was guaranteed closure on her adolescence.  
  
"You'd think the Powers that Be might want to make this whole thing a lot clearer instead of just making you jumpy," Angel replied.   
  
"Doesn't matter anyway, we're almost there. If there's a big dangerous monster looming about, we'll know why we came." Cordy leaned back against her seat.   
  
"And if we don't find a loomy monster?" Angel asked, turning to look at her.   
  
"Then we'll make with the mingling," she said, meeting his stare, then leaning back in her chair again, "And unless you got some special peripheral vision thing with the fangs and bloodlust, keep your eyes on the road."  
  
Cordy's gaze moved toward the road as the scenery continued getting closer, then passing by. The streets got more and more familiar, until they came onto one featuring a house she new too well. It was a warzone where she'd faced vampires, zombies, magic, demons and teenage hormones in various combinations - none of which made for pleseant memories. The coward and the prom queen in her were both very attatched to the idea of never going in, but the rest of her seemed hurtling towards that house without its various opinions on the matter being wieghed and measured  
  
The space in the driveway had been filled by a car Cordelia didn't recognize, so they pulled up along the curb in front of the house. It looked the same as it always had in the moonlight, deceptively homey. Despite Joyce's passing, the house maintained the welcoming feel she'd always given it. Cordy hadn't known the Summers matriarch very well, but there had been more than one occasion when she'd showed warmth and hospitality to the often haughty girl Cordelia knew she'd once been.   
  
Angel opened his door and got out. Cordy noticed a few seconds after the fact, and she followed suit, walking a few steps behind him up to the door.   
  
Before she could protest, or come up with an excuse to do so, he knocked on the door. She was going to mention something along the lines of the house being dark and that they should maybe try the magic shop or the graveyard, but she doubted it would have made a difference anyway. It wouldn't have changed him knocking, no the fact that she'd eventually have to go in one way or another.  
  
They waited in silence for a few second, then heard she heard soft footsteps coming toward the door. Cordy took a deep breath in, and as the door opened, she couldn't quite manage to let it out.  
  
Standing a little awkwardly just inside the door was the slightly less blonde woman she hadn't seen in a good five years, due predominately to the former's epic and well documented death. The latter quality remained fresh in Cordelia's mind as she stood face to face with a wide-eyed Buffy Summers. 


	8. Chapter 6: Tickle My Sorrow Bone

They all just stood there.

Although it was the universal strangeness of staring down someone you know to be dead - as well as, for said dead someone, the universal strangeness of staring back - that seemed to keep the three of them in stasis, it really wasn't what appeared to be on anyone's mind. What seemed to grip them, however, was an impromptu trip down Nostalgia Dr. courtesy their respective views on the awkward occurences in their lives, the current one not withstanding.

Angel himself found it all a little ironic. This was not an uncommon theme he'd observed in his two hundred and fifty-something year stint on God's green earth, in fact, it was getting just a tad on the stale side. Why was it he managed to wind up with ievery single/i skinny blonde with a tendency for resurrection? Sure, he was cursed with a soul and an inability to attain perfect happiness without going all homocidal and bloodlusty - but the bane of his existence had to be his choice in women.

And as far as his experience had shown, there were hardly any pros to exs coming back from the dead. The last time this happened the she in question ended up a vampire, once again, and he went into a deep depression, followed by the severing of ties with everyone he knew and cared for, the unceromonious slaughter of a large group of lawyers, and the occurence of an impossible pregancy for which he was partially responsible. To sum up, resurrected former flames lead to both lots of pain and single-fatherhood, two things he didn't need any more of.

Not to mention, this wasn't /ijust any/i dead ex. He may have spent a good century and change with the previously mentioned femme fatality, but this girl had been the love of his life. And that's a long damn life. It had hurt him more to loose her than anything he'd ever felt or inflicted, both when he left and when she died. It had taken him a lot of time, not to mention a summer in a Buddhist monastery, to let her go.

So this is where a problem arises. He loves someone else, the very someone else standing next to him; he has a son who thinks of said someone else as essentially his mother; he has a family, great friends; he's atoning for all those years of the rape-and-pillage gig; he should be good and moved on. He considered himself very moved on, looking toward the future, not wallowing in the past. He could teach the seminar on moving on, there'd be tapes, and tee-shirts with sayings that are only kind of funny. However, he'd never been very good at the game of forgive and forget, in fact, he was known quite well for his proficiency at brooding, and if he let her go like he claimed to, he was sure he wouldn't have had an unsettling need to believe she was really alive.

He smelt decay on her, looked her up and down to try and understand. Her hair looked dusty, her face a little worn. She was still wearing the dress she'd been burried in which sported various tears now. He couldn't place her expression. She seemed suprised, obviously, but it was more than that. Scared, maybe, and confused. If anything told him how real she was, it was the slight shake in her hand as it still held the door, and the utter bewilderment that galzed over her eyes.

Something moved. A cat on the street, a breeze - something. It disrupted the endless staring contest, knocking the three of them out of their hypnosis, and forcing them to recognize the movement of time. They weren't allowed an eternity of introspection in order to deal, each one needed to make a decision and act.

Buffy made it easy for the rest of them. A few short seconds after the noise, she took a clipped breath in, and ran back into the house and out the back door. Now, at least, there would be both something to react to as well as enough distance from it to remove that nagging sense of being overwhelmed.

"Did you see...?" Cordy breathed as she and Angel caustiously walked into the house.

"Buffy," Angel finished for her.

"Right, so that wasn't just me," she glanced down through the dinning room and into the kitchen, seeing that the back door was wide open. "... so our big loomy moster turns out to be a tiny dead slayer. Aren't we lucky."

- - -

"I don't understand," Xander announced, "just, ah, getting that out there." He didn't really have much to say besides that, it pretty much summed up his state of mind. He happened to be the lucky bastard without any otherworldly or supernatural powers. He was the average Joe, plain old Xander. He didn't know any spells, he couldn't levitate things, he couldn't kick ianyone's/i ass, let alone something twice his size sporting six claws per hand and the uncanny ability to spew acidic venom. He mostly knew how to be Emotional Support Guy, the provider of snacks and humorous entertainment - the best friend. Trouble was that people had learned to get their own snacks, his sense of humor was slipping away, and his best friends were both gone. So basically, he didn't understand.

"We don't have any answers," Giles said, appologetically.

Xander nodded. He sat at the table, slightly dishevled, in his pajamas, his coat thrown over them, his keys still in his right hand, his head resting on his left. Giles had called him shortly after he and Faith had discovered the grave and he'd left Anya to watch Dawn, meeting them at the Magic Box. It wasn't that he wasn't glad to be informed, but he wasn't under any delusion that he was needed at this impromptu meeting, not really. The truth was, it was just a reflex to call him, despite the fact that he would be of little to no use and they all knew it.

"Who would want Buffy's body?" Faith asked, "You said their were rituals, Giles, so what kind of voodoo are we talking about?"

"Necromancy, actually," Giles corrected, "their are hundreds of things a necromancer could do with the body of a slayer, however they mostly revolve around harnessing the powers of the slayer, the strength and prophetic dreams-"

"So we're not talking the end of the world, then," Faith broke in, "That's a relief. Start with that point next time."

"Not entirely," Giles replied, "there are numerous spells which I know of only vaguely, and most likely more than I'm completely unaware of. Until I make contact with the council, I believe we should be on guard, especially considering the choice of location our foe has made."

"How so?"

"There are more than enough dead slayers to choose from, the fact that the body stolen is so close to the Hellmouth could indicate an intent to use it."

"So this isn't about Buffy, then," Xander said, "You're completely ruling out the possibility that whoever took her body was after iher/i body specifically? I mean, maybe this isn't just about the slayer thing."

"Yes." Giles said, leaving it at that.

Xander gathered that this wouldn't be a topic left well alone. Buffy's enemy's had only ever wanted her dead, any individual with an interest in Buffy herself would have been satisfied in the fact that she was six feet under. No one would want Buffy out of that grave. Save for maybe one person, and it was that which Giles was no doubt avoiding a conversation about. Xander found himself more than happy to oblige, despite an underlying hope. The last thing anyone wanted at this point, when they were being drug back through the emotional muck surrounding Buffy's death, was to bring up another fallen friend.

- - -

Dawn slipped out from under the sleeping bag in the living room of Xander and Anya's place, keeping a careful eye on the snoozing mistress of the house as she slipped on her shoes and started tip-toeing to the door. This is what she'd come to. This is what she'd icome back/i to. And for what? So she could be graced with the honor of being the dumping grounds for several years of anger and regret? She could have done without, really.

Her journey to adulthood had come and gone and she was still sneaking out from under the baby-sitter because a few of her nearest and dearest have a terrible affliction of deja vu. She loved her sister, but she wasn't Buffy. Any blindman could see that. Unfortunately, she was dealing with the voluntarily deaf, dumb and blind: a complicated venture.

The plan was to get out, get a breath of fresh air, alone air. She wanted to go somehwere, the bronze, anywhere open, anywhere away. It was just too much. She had managed to be happy for most of the last three or so years, it still hurt sometimes, but for the most part, she'd managed to move on. And now she dropped right back into a time worp where everyone's acting like she died yesterday. Of course no one will talk about it, but everyone's thinking it. It felt like a fifty pounds of weight on her chest everytime someone looked at her. She wasn't even a person to them, she was just a piece of someone who was, a walking, talking reminder.

It had crossed her mind more than once that all these people wish it had been her. Wish she'd been the one to jump. And why not? She wasn't real, she was a lie they'd been made to believe. A construct. Her death would've been the price of Buffy's life, a fact that's not gone unnoticed. Of course, the Scoobie's way of dealing with the constant reminder of what Dawn had cost them manifest's itself in a severly over-attentive paranoia. Besides, Buffy would've wanted it.

Again, she loved her sister, but it was living under her shadow that was becoming unbareable. It wasn't in the "I want to outshine you" kind of way, either. Buffy's shadow was so incredibly huge (well, figuratively) that Dawn simply no longer really existed as anything but as what she was in relation to Buffy. All she wanted was to exist to these people.

At least she existed to Spike. Not that William the Bloody wasn't still weeping every spare tear for her dear 'ol sis, but he'd managed over his time with her to see her as something other than Buffy's remains. They were actually friends. In Spike's world she wasn't lost in the land of the immense Buffy-shadow, she was actually out with the sun, getting a tan. Well, again, figuratively.

She'd decided to take the graveyard route to the bronze. Not surprisingly, it was the route she had been most accustomed to, and for the moment she was choosing to ignore the fact that she had been in the company of several capable friends most every time. It had become second nature to be out at night, to be awake and alert, and graveyards didn't have the same spookiness they'd had when she was younger. Granted, she was still being cautious, but--

Dawn felt her foot get caught jump before she made a big thunk to the ground. Stunned, but not badly bruised, she sat up to her knees, dusting off her top before getting up. She felt odd all the sudden, something was familiar. Her haze moved a little in front of her and she read the gravestone. Then she looked to the grave itself, realizing it had been excavated. Her eyes widened and she took an involuntary deep breath. She saw a shadow grow acrossed the gravestone and she turned slowly to see who or what it was.

Dawn screamed with every atom of her body. 


End file.
